Space Case
by shadowmaat
Summary: The man who would be Space Core will do ANYTHING to go to space. Based on a prompt request to see a crazy-evil Space Core.


The first hour was fine.

The fifth hour he started imagining that the stars were moving counter to their programmed track.

By the eighth hour, he was convinced something was seriously wrong because he was sure he could hear whispering. In space. Well, no, not in space, in the Space Simulation Room at Aperture. But it was still space. And big. And full of more space.

They'd diagnosed him with acute agoraphobia, but that was wrong. It wasn't as if he was debilitated by large, open spaces (and there was so _much_ space, here!) it was just that big spaces tended to be very... big. And it didn't get much bigger than space itself, did it? Even those idiot shrinks had to admit that! But no, just because he preferred smaller spaces (which should be a bonus in the cramped space on a ship), they'd flagged his file, and now he might not even get a chance to go to space! _real _space!

Which was why he was here. Which was why he had broken the rules. The Space Simulation Room was supposed to be off limits to the astronaut candidates- something he still didn't understand- but a friend of a friend knew a thing or two about hacking electronic locks and he, himself, had spent several summers volunteering at the local planetarium and so had been able to figure out the equipment. At the time it had seemed like the perfect plan: spend a full 24 hours immersed in the glorious wonders of our universe and thereby prove to the people in charge that he was the best possible candidate for one of the four coveted slots. Except... except by the tenth hour in the simulator the sun had grown a face and started talking to him and he was convinced that Mars was judging him and finding him lacking. Stars danced in a complicated, spacey waltz and begged him to join them and it was taking all of his concentration to hold his body together and not go drifting off in a cloud of glowing motes.

He did manage to find the door. Eventually. But it was guarded by a jealous comet who insisted on questioning him before letting him past. Which galaxy was the largest? What was the mass of the star nearest our solar system? What was Saturn's favorite dessert? What were the names of the stars in the constellation Cassiopeia? Who had founded the space cops? What was the order of the planets by mass? He answered them all as best he could. but even after the comet reluctantly moved aside he found that the door was locked. He couldn't get back to the control console, either, to shut down the program. Part of him knew the console _had_ to be there, somewhere, but it wasn't where he'd left it. A nagging voice in the back of his head warned him that the space cops had confiscated it as evidence of his wrongdoing. But that was crazy. There were no such thing as space cops! He knew that! And even if they did exist they wouldn't care about him breaking into the space simulator. Would they?

If he could just get out of space- the space room- everything would be fine. He could get back to the space program so he could go to space- _real_ space- and see the stars and meet the planets so they could tell him all their secrets. Space secrets. But he had to go to space if he wanted to hear them. He would. He would go to space. Whatever it took, he'd get there. In space. He promised himself that. He promised them, too.

It took them three days to find him and another two before he was considered well enough to receive visitors. He spent most of that time worrying about his space studies, even after they told him he'd been removed from the program. He couldn't be removed from the space program, he'd explained, because he had to go to space. They didn't seem to understand. They showed him clips of the footage they'd found; the cameras had been recording him the whole time. In space. _So much space._Why didn't they understand that space was important? His being in space was important. Space was where he needed to be and space didn't care about the scars on his arms. Space would welcome him more than THEY ever had. That, somehow, seemed to convince him that they were right, but he'd show them, wouldn't he? He'd showed them before. About space. And he could do it again. For space.

He tried to stay quiet for a while. About space. About needing to go to space. They were reluctant to release him, but eventually they did. His stuff had already been moved back to regular quarters, not the space quarters he was used to. He didn't get to say goodbye to his space friends. But they weren't really his friends anymore, were they? They were the ones who were standing between him and space. And they knew it. And they avoided him. But that was OK, because he knew how to find THEM. He cornered them. Individually. He talked about space and about his need to go to space because if there was anyone who could understand why being in space was important it was his space friends, right? Wrong. They told him he was crazy. They told him to leave them alone. One of them even said he was never going to space. Never? Never go to space? That was wrong. That was _very_wrong. He showed him just how wrong it was. Over and over again. And then he cleaned up afterward because space was a very clean place. The baby sun hiding in the heart of the facility understood how important it was to get rid of messes. She accepted his gift with open arms and told him that soon he'd be able to meet the grownup sun. In space. All it would take is a little more convincing...

He did his best. He was always good at following orders and this was one he _really, really _wanted to obey because it meant he'd be going to space. Like he wanted to. Like he was supposed to.

The second time was harder than the first. They seemed to be on guard about something and no one would go anywhere with him alone. But that was OK; he knew their schedules almost as well as he knew his own. His space schedule. And the one he'd chosen to convince should have been the ideal candidate; he was always going on about the space between his ears. Maybe if he actually saw that space he'd be reminded why space was so important. But instead he'd struggled and fought and when the time came to show him the space between his ears it turned out to be full of grey mush. Not space. Grey mush and blood. _Again._ No wonder he didn't show any interest in looking at _that._The baby sun liked it, though. She liked everything he gave to her, which was more than could be said of anyone else in the facility. They shunned him. They didn't want to hear his space stories or listen to his space songs. He was beginning to wonder how committed they were to space. Clearly they weren't as committed as he was.

The third one was the easiest. He was drunk, which was definitely against the space regulations, but that didn't matter. He also seemed to be worried that the space program was in trouble, which only proved how drunk he was. How could the space program be in trouble? It was about space! Space wasn't any trouble at all. It was too big and too open and too full of stars and space to be any trouble. But that was OK, because it meant he didn't resist at all. He even seemed happy at the prospect of making a new friend. A space friend. All he cared about was that the new friend was hot. And she was. She was very, very hot. He seemed to have second thoughts about it at the end, but by then it was too late; he was already on his way to meet her.

They caught him the fourth time, before he could finish convincing his former space friend how important it was that he go into space. They seemed genuinely shocked by his behavior. They took away the star trophy he'd been trying to show off and put him in a small, padded room while they tried to decide what to do with him. He suggested they send him to space, but they wouldn't listen.

The room they put him in was small, with hardly any space at all and absolutely no stars. Or planets. Or moons. He couldn't hear the baby sun anymore. Had she stopped talking to him? Had he done something to upset her? Or was it just the injections they insisted on giving him? They made it hard for him to think. About space. About anything.

They wanted to know why he'd done it.  
><em>Done what?<em>  
>Killed the astronauts.<br>_He hadn't killed anyone, he just wanted to go to space._  
>They'd found the bodies at the bottom of the incinerator.<br>_Bodies? Incinerator?_  
>The astronaut candidates from the space program.<br>_Space!_  
>Someone had murdered them and thrown them in the incinerator.<br>_No space for them._

The conversation went on like that for a while. He couldn't understand why they kept asking him about bodies. Space was better. He hadn't killed anyone, all he'd done was talk to them and introduce them to his space friend who lived at the bottom of a shaft. That... that wasn't wrong, was it? Space was never wrong, because it was SPACE!

They just shook their heads at him. One commented that he was a real space case, which earned glares from the others, but that was completely right! He WAS a space case! A case for space! And they should let him go to space. But they still said no. They said he wasn't suited- space suited- for space. They had a better idea. But what could be better than space? Pioneering new technology? Not even space technology? What was the point of that?

Later there was pain. A LOT of pain. So much pain that it almost drove out all thoughts of space. The glowing motes of himself... Oh. Oh, _gods._ What- what had he _done?_ Nonononono! That wasn't what he'd meant at all! He didn't want to _hurt_ anyone, he just wanted to go to _space!_ Didn't they understand? He _had_ to go! Had to go to space! Space! SPAAAAAAACCCEEEE! 01010011 01110000 01100001 01100011 01100101 00111111


End file.
